


Nothing's Gonna Change My World

by pourrir



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Reform Vulcan, Prince Spock, Vulcan Culture, implied/referenced non-consensual mind meld
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-06-09 16:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pourrir/pseuds/pourrir
Summary: The captain of the Enterprise crash-lands on Vulcan after his exploratory shuttle is compromised, leaving him at the mercy of the most aggressive warp-capable species in the alpha quadrant.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Thanks for reading! This is my first fic that I've posted, and I'd appreciate any comments or feedback that you may have! This takes place in a world where the Vulcan reformation didn't go exactly the same, so its after Surak, but technically before reform. I'll be updating the tags as I go, because I'm sure new things will come up. Title from "Across The Universe"!

Jim’s eyes crack open, and light filters in. Sensations start to re-enter his body, first noticing the gummy feeling as his eyelids blink a couple of times. The pain follows quickly, a sickly wave that originates from his forehead, his chest and waist, his whole body. Pushing his head off of the console in front of him, Jim gingerly touches the congealed blood from a cut on his forehead. Its not too deep and the bleeding has stopped, but the skin around it feels warm and swollen to the touch. The amount of blood on the navigation system is sickening and Jim knows his face must look even worse. Running his hands down his body, there are a few more scrapes, but Starfleet safety protocol must be doing something right because there are no serious injuries. The escape pod’s harness digs in cruelly at his shoulders and around his waist until Jim punches the release, and he slumps towards the downward-facing section of the crashed space vehicle. 

Personally okay, Jim turns his attention to the readings on the screens in front of him. Most are flickering dangerously, ready to give. Life support failing and severely compromised, Jim reads. The pod is cramped, and the flickering of the lights and hiss of broken valves doesn’t make it more comfortable. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs and focus, Jim accesses the trajectory logs from navigation. He already had a sinking feeling in his gut- and it turns into a stone as soon as the console beeps back and displays his current location. At least Vulcan was class M, and he wouldn’t have to worry about the environmental controls.

The fact that he could survive didn’t mean he wasn’t fucked, though. There was a reason that Vulcan was off-limits. Starfleet got the message years ago, after their third attempt at trying to get the planet to join the Federation. The Enterprise had had to remain just outside of the system while Jim and- here Jim’s mind stumbled, remembering Ensign Pollard. He had watched as shrapnel from their shuttle ran through the boy and pinned him to the deck. Leaving crew behind was never easy, but Jim had known that the young man was dead before he abandoned ship. Their mission had been a simple one, consisting of gravitational telemetry readings of 40 Eridani A, the sensors on the shuttle designed to pick up and record automatically. Space junk against completely inadequate shields was just bad luck.

Jim spent a few minutes gathering supplies, mentally categorizing everything he knew about Vulcan, mentally running over his desert survival training. He couldn’t stay here, wherever ‘here’ was. There was no way the Vulcan sensors missed an unidentified spacecraft hurtling towards the surface. All the hardware was unmarked, all the software designed to self-destruct. The only thing that could still implicate the federation was him. It was basically a game of keep-away for now, and Jim couldn’t help but wonder who would get him first. The Enterprise, or the Vulcans? He obviously hoped for the former.

Opening the hatch of the pod, Jim’s eyes instinctively squinted as daylight entered the cockpit, along with a swirl of hot air. Suddenly, the familiar smell of replicated air was gone and was replaced with a breeze that was dry enough to make his sinuses feel strange and tight. Baked earth and salt came in on the breeze, and Jim only hesitated for a moment before pushing out of the pod. After letting his eyes adjust, he stared out at the landscape in horror. Intellectually, he knew that Vulcan was a desert planet, with scrublands and grasslands being the most diverse ecosystems on the entire surface. The reality staring back at him was depressing. Sun-blasted earth stretched out in an even plain for as far as the eye could see, the hardpacked and cracked surface of the plain offering only minor variation. In the distance heat mirages shimmered, giving the impression that water pooled near the horizon. He knew that he could walk for ages and not reach those promises. The soil- if it could be called soil with the lack of life- was red-tinged and crumbled when he kicked at it with the toe of his regulation black leather boots. The sky, nearing sunset, was blue. It was not the same blue as earth. It was lighter, closer to white than the traditional baby blue of Iowa. In one direction, crouched low on the horizon stood a low range of mountains. 

And the heat. The heat was oppressive, like a heavy wet blanket that came around to wrap around his shoulders, his head and his lungs. Jim could feel the air almost burn his throat on the way down, and a light sweat had already broken out on his body.

Jim took off his gold shirt, wrapping it around his waist and settled in the shade of the pod. He would wait for night, then set out. Meanwhile, he prepared an emergency transmitter. Activating it would attract unwanted attention, but he intended to leave it with the shuttle. At least the Enterprise would know someone survived after they came looking for them.

As the sun set, the intensity of the heat started to wane. It was becoming more bearable and still completely unsuited to human physiology. Jim wondered if he could get used to it over time, or if being on the planet would always be as difficult. He also noticed how heavy his body felt while he was waiting for night and a shortness of breath. Previous scans by the federation had shown the thinner atmosphere and higher gravity and Jim was clearly feeling it. Strenuous activity for any extended period of time could pose a problem.

After the sun was completely gone and a burnt umber twilight had settled heavily on the plain, Jim hefted the pod’s emergency kit over his shoulder. Pressing a few buttons, the emergency beacon hidden in the spacecraft started to blink, transmitting. Hopefully the Enterprise would pick it up soon, before either the Vulcans or this desert could get to him. Jim started walking towards the far mountain range in the gathering dark, the heat of the day slowly dissipating.

\---  
Jim travelled with the tricorder held out in front of him. A flashlight was too much of a risk, but the scanner could quickly warn him of any obstructions or lifeforms in the area. The flora and fauna of Vulcan was a complete mystery, and thankfully Jim hadn’t run into any yet. Without proper calibration, the tricorder would not be able to tell the harmless from the dangerous.

He walked and he walked. At one point he finally allowed himself a sip of his water from the emergency kit, his thirst long since having faded and his tongue feeling fuzzy and sticking to the top of his mouth. There were only four litres of water in the kit- it would only keep him going for a few days if rationed correctly. After the first few sips Jim forced himself to stop drinking, re-capping the water. His throat grated painfully after the refreshing mouthfuls had passed, and Jim scowled. He decided to bring up the contents of emergency kits to the admiralty at the next opportunity. 

The travel was boring. The plain was flat and monotonous, and the desert did not give off a sound besides the sighing of the wind and the sound of his own gait. Jim wasn’t singing or speaking, intending to conserve moisture and keep his breathing deep and even. The lack of oxygen was already making his body heavy with fatigue, and Jim knew that he would need to rest. Jim thought about Bones as he chewed on a ration bar, knowing that his friend was going to have an aneurysm next time they saw each other, and smiled. It would be a relief to hear his bitching again, although Jim suspected that he’d be screened for melanoma for months because of this stunt. 

One thing that this desert had going for it was the stars. They were in different positions than on earth, but Jim was used to that. The nature of his job meant that the stars were different for him every day. The extent of the plain meant the sky was completely unobstructed, leaving the pierced velvet to arch over his head in a literally breathtaking display.

Close to sunrise, Jim finally allows himself to collapse onto the ground, taking his first real drink of water since he landed. There was still no shelter in sight, but the mountains he was travelling towards were noticeably closer. Jim wasn’t sure what could be found there, but he certainly hoped for a spring of some sort. Wrapping his head in his undershirt and wearing the command gold to protect from the day’s sun, Jim falls asleep in the relative cool of the early morning.

\---  
Spock felt his mount shift underneath him. The day’s heat was reaching its peak, and I-Chaya was uncomfortable. They would water the animals again before setting out, since they had transported directly to this location. From where he pressed his palm into the dense fur, a thrum of excitement poured into his head. It was an excitement and anxiety that all sehlats knew well, that of a hunt. He sat at ease as he watched some of the lower ranking officers inspect the crashed spacecraft. It was picked up on their planetary sensor two days prior, coming in at uncontrolled velocity and landing in the yon-eiktra. The region was uninhabited for good reasons. Even Vulcans, as a desert people, require water to survive. His body’s thermoregulation was kicking in, controlling his body temperature and regulating moisture lost through respiration. He surveyed the desert and saw nothing but a flat plain. 

The junior members of the hunting party were tagging the spacecraft for transportation back to ShiKahr, having finished the preliminary field examinations. Their reports were basic, explaining that the pod would not have needed a pilot, but evidence suggests that there was a humanoid there when it crashed. There was blood. Red blood, though that was the rule rather than the exception in the galaxy. The pilot must have set off into the desert on foot. With a two-day lead, they still could not have gone far. 

Dismounting in one smooth move, Spock’s boots gently touched down onto the red mineral. His hunting party stood at attention, those analysing using scanners while his warriors held traditional lirpas in their hands. “At ease,” He said, making his way towards the shuttle, ducking his head inside. The technology was foreign, but not incomprehensible. The scientists at the VSA will do well with the new specimen. Reaching out and grabbing a loose fragment of the console, Spock straightens up into the heat of the day. The browned crust crumbles slightly under his fingertips as he brings it to I-Chaya’s nose. His sehlat huffs deeply a few times, trained to easily remember the scent. I-Chaya is getting old, but is still far too reliable to retire, and Spock would miss his companion.

He surveys his party with a cool gaze, eyes fixing on his second, T’Peyra, “If we are prepared to depart, please ready your mounts.” Her armour gleamed as she quickly ordered the transport of the scientists and the shuttle, making sure plenty of water was made available for the party of Sehlats to drink before they left. Spock swung back onto the wide saddle, watching with subdued approval as his small party of troops prepared to leave. The scientists had left in a swirl of a transporter beam, and his warriors were formidable. Their armour rested against their light robes, gleaming brightly where sunlight hit the aluminum alloy. They sit straight in their saddles, waiting for his order to depart. Their faces are fierce and proud, and Spock can feel a small curl of satisfaction in his stomach. He takes a moment to realize that the excitement of the day is interfering with his control, before T’Peyra salutes.

“S’haile Spock, preparations are complete,” She announces, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she smiles in a way that would be frightening to a weaker man. 

Spock nods once, finally allowing I-Chaya to turn his head into the breeze where the scent from the shuttle leads. Without having to say a word, his company turns their mounts together in perfect formation, heading towards the Kei’i mountains on the horizon. The small curl of satisfaction in his stomach blooms into a fat flower of satisfaction and Spock allows himself a small smirk. The outworlder would soon be in custody, taken to ShiKahr for questioning and T’Pau would be pleased. 

\---  
Jim stumbled on. It was his third night walking the desert, and not much had changed. It was slightly easier to breathe now, but thirst had taken all appreciation Jim could have of this fact. He was down to a single litre of water now, and the clawing thirst was his constant companion. It wrapped around his head making his thoughts fuzzy and slow, if he could think of anything other than the piss-warm bottle still tucked away in the emergency kit. He still walked with purpose, but his movements were tired. He felt like it was almost time for another sip, but the longer he could fight the temptation the more likely he would survive this desert. When he woke this evening, the foothills of the mountains were tantalizingly close, and he knew he could reach them tonight or tomorrow night. They might be just as barren, but he hoped. Hoped for some water, for something to eat that wasn’t the rations that were too dry for him to chew and swallow any longer. For some shelter from the sun. Despite covering himself every morning with his clothes, they were still only replicated cotton and 40 Eridani A cut through them like butter while he slept. His entire body was sunburnt, and Jim knew that he was losing moisture through the burns. In particular his shoulders smarted when his shirt shifted over the burns, and his head was burnt through his hair. He was in rough shape. And the Enterprise still hadn’t contacted him. 

Pausing to take the water bottle out of the kit, Jim unscrews the cap, moving slowly, carefully. A few days ago he was far more reckless than he is now and has spilled a quarter of the second water bottle onto the hardpack of the desert. Watching the precious moisture sink into the red grainy soil had been an exquisite torture, and Jim had sobbed when it had sunk out of sight. A few days ago he still had not understood how thirsty he could be. A single, tiny mouthful later he recapped the bottle. He swirled the mouthful around for a moment, relishing how his tongue unglued from the roof of his mouth and how his cheeks slid against his teeth easily once again. Closing his eyes as he swallowed, he knew he was fucked.

He spent a few moments fantasizing about Earth and Iowa, where water pooled under the trees in the hedgerow, and a small creek ran by the back of their property. About the frequent rains, at least once a week. The bounty of water in the winter, great stores of water as snowbanks, as ice, as frost. He thought about being able to turn on a tap and getting a tall, cold glass- these thoughts were not helping. It just made the pain in his throat worse after the completely inadequate sip from the bottle.

Jim continued on, the mountains near enough that they blocked out the lower portion of the sky. He had covered many miles these past few nights and would be close by morning.

\---  
Spock’s party rose with the sun and camped at night. Their fires blazed against the press of the dark, fed by dried tough grasses from the fields near ShiKahr. Out here on the yon-eiktra there was not much to worry about, but as they approached the mountains the danger of predators increased as night fell. The scent grew stronger, I-Chaya and the other mounts huffing in excitement. They would come upon their quarry sometime the during the next day. They were all curious to discover what species of humanoid they were pursuing, as not many could withstand the desert like a Vulcan. 

“Osu,” Stonn greeted him respectfully as he handed Spock some cooked rations, a mixture of high-energy vegetables quickly roasted over the flames. The others ate meat with theirs. “We are close, we will apprehend the outworlder within a day.” Stonn’s eyes shone with an excitement and a bloodlust. There was tradition surrounding this ritual. It would be quicker and easier to simply scan the desert and transport directly to the fugitive, more logical. However, Vulcans treasure tradition, and there were few things more traditional or ancient than a war party on the ride. 

“What you say is true, may it bring us honour.” Spock had lightly meditated during the ride, calming the excitement he felt for the hunt. It would not do for him to lose his head, and his emotions were only smoldering; allowing him to answer Stonn with a blank face. 

“I wonder what will be done to the outworlder after their interrogation,” Stonn mused aloud, making a few other members of their party send him grim smiles. “Perhaps we will be awarded another hunt,”

“Lethal authority next time,” T’Mara said, glancing around and seeing approving glances. She was re-braiding her hair, removing it from its many plaits and twists for the night. She was a peacock in ShiKahr but refrained from taking her jewellery and hair beads with her into the desert. Her armour was decorated in many lines of fine scrollwork, almost too faint to catch in the dark. The level of craftmanship would have cost a fortune, and T’Mara preened whenever it was complimented. 

T’Peyra knocked against T’Mara’s shoulder affectionately. “Hopefully, but do not get too ahead of yourselves. Any opportunity to execute the outworlder will go to S’haile Spock. It is his right.” 

Spock watched as Stonn lowered his head, scowling. The firelight danced a ring around his short cropped hair, bangs hanging straight over the man’s forehead. Spock knew that Stonn tried too hard, hiding his lack of control by adopting the same haircut as Surak. The lapse here was clear, but the younger Vulcan was often too eager during hunts or patrols, getting out of hand during battle or not preparing enough before. His main problem was his pride. Being proud and able to defend your status was important, but so was tempering the feeling. Aggressive pride was the downfall of communities and bonds, as taught by Surak. Spock knew Stonn would take this as an offence to his character but could do little to refute the statement as T’Peyra spoke the truth. Giving her a reproachful look, T’Peyra simply winked in response, running her fingers through her younger sister’s hair, helping T’Mara to untangle the mass. Rising from the fire, Spock adjusted his long robes before wishing his small party a good night. Tokav had already retired to his tent, and Spock did the same. 

As he bed down, he heard Salok as he started to recite; one of the more bloody epics of the past. Spock smiled to himself, he knew his warriors and he knew how they dreamt of a fate as honourable as one of the ancient heroes. So eager to die, so illogical.  
\---  
Jim had finished the water.

He had woken at sunset at the end of his third day, and had known that he couldn’t move on without hydrating. Finishing the bottle with little sips had felt like a death sentence, while the last drops clung to the interior of the clear plastic. But that wasn’t the worst news. 

As the sun had set, Jim could see small sparks light up in the distance. It was impossible to tell how far, because perspective in this desert was destroyed by the monotony, but it seemed to be two campfires. It wasn’t the Enterprise crew, because his communicator was still silent, so it must be Vulcans. They were close. 

Jim felt a shiver run down his spine involuntarily. Vulcan aggression was almost legendary, and they rivalled Klingons for the title of “most aggressive warp-capable species”. The difference being, the Vulcans didn’t conquer, just defended their planet and their space. They also would not co-operate. During his years as a cadet, Jim learned about the first federation mission to Vulcan. He couldn’t imagine the horror of a three-quarters massacred landing party, the remaining members severely injured, flinching when touched- with no memory of the incident. It is said that Captain Shao had had panic attacks for the rest of his career if someone would touch his face. The following few meetings had not failed as horribly, most likely due to a working translator, but the federation was still not welcome. Especially uninvited.

Jim really didn’t want to be caught.

He had noticed a cleft in the mountains, looking like a pass of some sort. He was already starting to climb, the ground rising in a shallow slope up towards the low peaks. It seemed a good a place as any, and Jim forced his feet to shuffle forward.

The climb only got worse, his sore legs scrabbling against the loose material of the hillside. His feet sent little rivulets of sand running backwards, his feet sliding more often than not a couple of inches. The thirst was background now, replaced by the annoying itchy feeling of his eyes whenever he blinked. Jim couldn’t think, but he could force a foot in front of the other. 

The first time he falls, the air is knocked out of him in an aggressive whoosh. Rolling a few feet down the slope, his face digs into the red scree, and he mouths a curse. His throat is closed and not a single sound comes from his dry mouth. Getting up is difficult, but he does and continues on his way. The mountains are now towering over him, and he can see into the opening of the gorge. It is even darker, the light from the stars not penetrating because of the tall walls of towering stone.

He falls again. This time his arms need to be forced beneath him, forced to push his torso up. His arms and chest scream in protest as he levers up into a sitting position. His legs feel numb and rubbery when he mounts to his knees and then to his feet. His vision is tunneled on the entrance to the gorge. Get out of sight, get off this hill.

An irrational thought occurs to him, that just behind the turn of the gorge- there’s a pool there. A nice, beautifully cool pool of water. There he can drink. There he can rest. He doesn’t recognize it as irrational, and a new purpose drives his steps forward.

The third fall has Jim scrambling forward on his hands and knees, too weak to stand but not willing to give up on his oasis. He collapses a few feet into the cleft in the mountain, at first looking around frantically and then weeping bitterly. No tears come; his body simply wracked with sobs. Jim lets his head fall down to the pebbly ground, closing his eyes against the burning of the gritty sand as he falls unconscious.


	2. Chapter 2

Spock motions for a halt before the hill of scree. The sehlats are huffing openly now, grunting and stomping their paws in excitement. Tokav’s mount even pops it’s jaw once, before the man calms the animal. The sound hits the mountain face and echoes back, sending a small flock of winged lizards flying from a high ledge. The sun shines through the thin membrane of their wings, highlighting the bones and capillaries in their purple skin. His companions circle around, while carefully watching for large predators. The le-matya is often nocturnal, but favourable terrain and easy prey may have them out.

This Spock reminds his companions about, assessing their readiness. Four sets of deep brown eyes met his steadily, while Stonn glanced away nervously when theirs had met. He will be dismissed once they return, his emotional responses making him shifty. “Remember, the outworlder must be taken alive. Dead, they are of no use. You will have your fun once they have been questioned.” 

Spock organizes the marching order, with T’Peyra behind him, followed by Salok. T’Peyra has her lirpa in hand, with yellow ochre paint swirling up her strong arms, the olive tone of her skin close to glowing in the strong morning light. T’Mara and Tokav were next, followed by Stonn at the rear. It wouldn’t do to have him be overeager and ‘accidentally’ slip into a rage. Best to keep him away from the action. 

Urging I-Chaya forward, the cool of the shadows slips over Spock’s back as he enters the mountain cleft. The rock that rises around them is a dark gray with streaks of oxidized iron striping the surface. The padding of the paws on the sand is almost silent, the tension in the air finally silencing the restlessness of their mounts. Spock has a momentary flash of triumph, seeing the crumpled figure laying on the ground, before a ripping growl comes from above.

Glancing up, Spock only manages to catch the landing of a le-matya directly behind him, jumping down from a ledge above as another rushes him from the front. Shouts issue from his companions as he hears the first tearing sounds of flesh tearing and the blunt end of a lirpa hitting, but he has no time to turn to properly assess the situation before the predator rushing him is there. The gray-green beast, its hide mottled to match the rocks springs towards them, its powerful legs bunching and thrusting it into the air. I-Chaya rears up to meet the opponent, almost throwing Spock off in the process. Spock readies his weapon as the two much larger animals snarl and snap at each other. The le-matya opens up a series of gashes along the sehlat’s shoulders with its serrated claws, while I-Chaya is snapping and biting at its face, revealing gruesome green flesh along the sides of its muzzle.

Both drop out of the feral embrace, wanting to circle but being unable in the narrow passage. Spock is too focused to determine how the battle behind is progressing, but he can see the slumped figure of the outworlder past the lithe body threatening him and cannot tell if they are still alive. His mount is preparing for another attack, and Spock leans forward, using the long reach of his lirpa to attack with the fan-shaped blade. Two strikes later, green blood is dripping lazily down the face of the le-matya, making the bared teeth colour slightly with mixed blood. The beasts charge forward once again, meeting and biting at each other, trying to reach a vulnerable area with either teeth or fangs. Spock stabs around the body of his pet, catching the writhing monster near the shoulder, closer to the chest. There is not sufficient force to deeply pierce the hide, and the cut does not go deep.

A hurtling weight hits Spock from behind, sending him out of the saddle, the dry and rocky ground not making for a comfortable landing. The lirpa is jarred from his grasp as he looks up to see another le-matya crouched on I-Chaya’s back, snapping at the back of his neck. The first le-matya takes advantage and rushes forward, claws extended. Spock jumps to his feet, his careful control on his emotions starting to crack. In the background behind the sound of collisions and fighting he can hear at least two of his companions screaming their fury as they fight. Spock takes out his blade, a gleaming half-sickle as he charges forward, sending a powerful swing at the first le-matya. As it leaps, the metal buries itself deep inside its gut, sending a spill of blood onto the red ground. Its shrill death cry is piercing to the ears, and Spock wrenches back his weapon.

Turning to look, the second le-matya is simply raising its head from its kill, ropes of viscous saliva and blood dripping from its grin. I-Chaya is slumped on the ground, the whites of his eyes darkened with blood, his breathing laboured. Spock again only has time to notice that his party is retreating to open ground before the weight of the le-matya is pinning him, claws inches away from his skin but held back by his shoulder plates. The stinking breath hits his face, smelling acidic and of putrefaction at the same time. In a last-ditch effort, Spock reaches up with his hand, trying to grab a hold of the nerve cluster near the neck, but the movement of the feline and the sinking of its teeth into his upper arm make it impossible. The pain is sudden and terrible, and Spock screams. Despite all his training with the Masters of Gol, fear shatters his peace, fragmenting his ordered thoughts. He continues to fight against the creature, closing his eyes. Spock’s movements become desperate, fighting to get the le-matya off of him.

A loud crack can be heard from above, and when Spock opens his eyes the beast falls limply on top oh him. Its neck is broken, and it is bodily shoved to the side by Stonn. Quiet has fallen inside the gorge, and only distant sounds of fighting can be heard upon the scree slopes outside. Spock can feel himself breathing- too fast- and consciously tries to slow it. Stonn is standing there, body covered in blood and face a twisted mask of rage and pain. Spock can tell one of his shoulders is dislocated, but Stonn still reaches out his good arm to Spock, lifting him off the ground and into his space.

Spock can sense trouble when he looks into Stonn’s eyes- they are swimming with emotion Spock doesn’t have time to untangle as Stonn whispers, “You,” His face twists. “Have not earned the honour. To lead me, to order me, to keep from me.” His teeth are grinding so hard that Spock can hear them, and the grip around his wrist is too strong to break. He can feel his blood dripping down his arm from the deep gashes of the predator’s teeth. Spock is not focused, unable to respond, just trying to figure out what the meaning of the words are in that order.

And Stonn doesn’t wait for a response. Spock feels a hit to the chest, knocking the breath out of him, followed by a strange invasion as Stonn runs him through. Spock coughs once, and falls. He stares up at Stonn in shock as the other Vulcan places a sandaled foot to his chest and pulls out the blade, letting the drops of green blood run off the length and patter onto the sand. After stowing the weapon, Spock can feel himself being dragged further down the gorge, around the nearest bend and dropped. The sky, far, far above him is marked with the tiniest wisps of cloud that he knows will never show this place any rain. His body is slowing, heading for a healing trance. Will Stonn finish him off? He hears another body being dropped next to him. 

He sees Stonn one last time before he blacks out, looming over him and smiling. “For your human heart.” The spit Spock feels land on his face before his eyes slip closed only adds insult to injury.

-  
When the trance fades naturally, hours later, Spock is shocked that he is still alive. His hand comes up to touch his chest, feeling a patch of puckered skin. His emotional shields are in tatters, and the potent betrayal he felt still occupies his mental focus. He takes a moment to check his status. Because he had been well rested, most of the damage is already repaired, only a slight hitch in his breathing to show that his left lung was not completely healed. Stonn’s spit had dried to a crust hours ago, as the sun looked like it was preparing to set. Rising up, Spock stumbles for a second over a body lying beside him. Pushing it over with his foot, Spock doesn’t recognize a member of his party and decides that this must be the outworlder. 

The features indicate that they were Terran, and likely male. The skin of the face was reddened and irritated, drawn in a pattern of premature tiredness. Short golden brown curls were splayed against the sand, the stranger’s body limp and unresponsive. Not the problem right now. 

Walking around the corner, Spock could fully appreciate the carnage the ambush had caused. He grieved for I-Chaya, who had obviously succumbed to the poison of the le-matya’s claws while Spock had been healing. The old sehlat was laying on its side, saddle and supplies still attached. Three le-matyas were bloating in the heat as well, but Spock saw no evidence of the rest of his party. He refused to think about what that meant. The slopes outside of the gorge had another dead le-matya, along with the sehlat of Tokav; gouged and ripped in places. Again, none of his party could be seen, so he gathered all the equipment he could from the dead mounts and walked back into the gorge. The sand clung to his sandaled feet where the pools of blood had not dried completely, making a black mud. He took a moment to notice that his communicator was missing. The numbness of sorrow was doing more to re-establish his control quickly than meditation could have.

Spock knelt near the stranger, checking his pulse. It was faint and fluttering, but still there. Guessing at severe dehydration, simply from the look of the cracked and parched lips, Spock grabbed the outworlder under the armpits, dragging him and the supplies further into the gorge. The light was fading quickly, and Spock knew the risks of this terrain. 

The le-matya were not known to hunt in packs, and Spock guessed that the animals had been preparing to attack the prone stranger. Perhaps the scent of easy prey had lured them out into the daylight. He was too numb to feel relief that his mission might yet be completed by the sheer luck- or horrible misfortune- of interrupting that hunt. His duty to his family and him home was deeply ingrained in him, and he continued down the gorge. 

Walls of rock continued to grow higher and higher above his head, and finally the caves began. Pockets of air, leftover from when these mountains were forming had created a complex and deep system of caverns and tunnels. Their sides were smooth and rounded, often connecting and branching from one another. Spock finds one suitable for their needs, as it is wide and deep, but all of the branches are too small for the desert predators. Starting a fire is a matter of moments, the grasses gathered off of the sehlats burning merrily. Spock continues to set up camp on the ever-present red sand before turning to his prisoner.

Spock begins to examine the humanoid, turning the body onto its back. He considers his options before bringing over one of his full waterskins, lifting the other’s head and slapping him, hard. Spock is gratified when the man tenses and tries to open his eyes that are glued shut by dried mucus and sand. Alive enough to respond. Shoving the neck of the bottle between his lips and pouring, the Terran is conscious enough to swallow. Spock gives him only a little, knowing how the body can reject water when it has gone without for a long period. He lets the man fall back to the sand, sputtering in a half-awake haze. Spock watches as the man reaches out, likely looking for the water, his hands stained red from the dust of the desert. Spock allows him a moment to adjust before allowing another small drink. When he pulls the drink away a second time, a small broken noise of protest comes from the man’s throat. After a third drink, Spock stands and walks away, leaving the man to rest. 

Spock realizes that he is in a uniquely complicated situation. He folds himself into position for meditation but just thinks. He is stranded without a mount between a desert and a mountain range, with limited resources. He is not even in his home province, but the one neighbouring his to the west. He has no mount, no communication, and just a vague idea of the nearest city. At least one member of his hunting party had betrayed him, and Spock would only allow himself to believe that the others thought he was dead. It was unfathomable that T’Peyra could betray him. Before Stonn had stabbed him, it was unfathomable that any of his companions would betray him. Could leave him for dead. He clenched his fists as sick hate filled his mind, as slimy and black as tar. He would have to meditate later, banish that feeling. If his controls were compromised it was unlikely that he would survive this ordeal. 

To complicate matters even further, he now had a living captive outworlder with him, sick and dehydrated.

Spock allowed himself a brief moment to pinch the bridge of his nose when coughing interrupted his train of thought. He moved back over to the man, lifting his head and allowing a bigger drink. Spock watched in fascination as he noticed a light gathering of moisture had appeared on the man’s forehead. He was still semi-conscious, breathing heavily and barely moving. Spock ran his finger over the man’s face, gathering a touch of the moisture and examined it. He knew only basic Terran physiology but guessed this was perspiration; a highly inefficient form of thermoregulation.

Spock wet a corner of his tent canvas with water, and ran it over the man’s face, clearing his eyes of debris. After a few more rounds of drinking and resting, it was late into the night and the outworlder was sleeping soundly. Spock could feel the distress slowly fading from the man as he drank his fill, the discomfort obviously fading. His appearance was drastically different from when Spock had first seen the man, the skin of his face no longer sagging and tired but taut, as if the water had given him back years. It was fascinating. 

He took the extra precaution of tying the outworlders hands and feet before stoking the fire and falling into meditation, trying to order his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruh gonna be straight up, already had this typed when i first wrote this in june?? sorry to be tht person but i got a job + uni.... maybe ill get to this around chrismis or maybe not. Next summer break, 1 ch per year? we shall see. Sorry in advance tho


End file.
